


The Soldier of Savoy

by FrozenInSpace



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt!Aramis, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, OT3 implied, OT4 implied, Other, Post Savoy fic, Tortured! Aramis, Worried! Porthos and Athos, copious amount of alcohol, i'm sorry i had to, reference to self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenInSpace/pseuds/FrozenInSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot following the attack on Savoy and again after the death of Marsac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soldier of Savoy

**Author's Note:**

> I know this has been done, but it was stuck in my head and I had to! As shippy/non-shippy as you want to read it as.

**Savoy, 1625**  
  
Aramis had woken up alone in the woods, surrounded by the bodies of his friends and comrades. He saw Germain, eyes staring dully at the grey sky marred by the trees and scattered dust, and Etienne, a pool of blood beginning to cool and congeal on the floor beneath him. Aramis himself couldn't see straight due to a severe headache, and when he touched his head he felt a bandage and the sticky warmth that was blood.   
  
And then he remembered, like a thousand musket-balls shooting straight into his heart. He remembered the attack, obviously soldiers from Savoy near to where they were training: Aramis had managed to slash the leader directly across the back, deep enough to leave a scar. He remembered watching his comrades fall one by one, their bodies making a sickening thump every time they fell. As he looked around, he could see none left living....it was Marsac and him alone now.   
  
But....Marsac had run, had shed his uniform next to where Aramis lay, a deserter and a traitor. Aramis was too exhausted and dizzy to think any more than that, but he stood up, supporting himself against a tree, letting the darkness recede before beginning to ride towards Paris.   
  
He found a few good men on his way there, who had returned with him to help him load up the bodies onto the cart. He knew that Marsac would have sent a message, that had been the last thing he'd said to Aramis, but he hadn't stayed to help him with the heartbreaking task ahead of him.   
  
With the bodies all loaded up, Aramis attached the cart to two horses, one his riding mare and the other a strong shire horse one of the men had lent him. They had pitied the look in his eyes as he dealt with the aftermath, eyes containing the ghost of a madman.   
  
It was some days before Aramis made it back. He had to stop several times, the ride making his head worse; he called in at an inn along the way, making sure to eat and drink. It was afternoon when he made it back, and the first person he saw was Porthos.   
  
'Oh thank God!' The large man yelled as he crossed the courtyard, wrapping Aramis in an embrace as warm and violent as a man could be. To the smaller man's surprise, Athos, who they had only known for a year, also embraced him, but his expression, though guarded, told the desperation and anxiety they both had felt since the messenger had arrived. This was the first time that Aramis took a moment to consider what had happened in any detail. He left the two after a short while to speak to Treville for a debriefing, unfathomable grief in both men's eyes. Afterwards, Aramis took himself to his rooms, barely making it through the door before his knees gave way, his breath coming in shaky and shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs. He sat on the floor, curled into a ball for about an hour, before climbing into his bed, glad to let himself succumb to the darkness which would unknowingly bring him flashbacks of the events for years to come.   
  
**Paris, 1625**  
  
It was only apparent to Porthos and Athos a few weeks later that something was seriously wrong with their friend. They'd expected that he would be different, weighed down by grief and pain and survivor's guilt, but what was the problem was that he seemed completely fine. No reaction whatsoever. He was completely normal, except for a few subtle signs. His hands shook, a minute tremor which worsened any time a gun went off. Dark bags under his eyes, telling of little sleep. He even seemed to have lost weight- his face was gaunt and pale, eyes sunken, lips dry and cracked despite the warm weather. He seemed otherwise normal, making jokes and laughing louder than anyone else, just as always.   
  
Or at least, that's how it seemed to everyone until one particular Tuesday night, where a bar fight broke out, sending Aramis running out of the tavern and into a nearby alleyway, where he was again taken over by panic, digging his fingernails into his neck hard enough to draw blood. Porthos found him that night, and helped him walk back to his rooms, where he stayed watching while he screamed helplessly in his dreams. It was then that the façade came crashing down.   
  
Over the next few days, Aramis began to avoid them all, opting to remain as far away from anyone as possible. He didn't appear for meals, and was only spotted once, sat in the darkest corner of a tavern the other side of the city. He didn't speak, barely appeared at the garrison, and refused to even open the door to either Porthos or Athos, pretending that he hadn't heard them. It was at this point that Porthos refused to let the whole thing go any further, forcing himself into the room by breaking down the door, unprepared for the sight he was about to see.   
  
Aramis looked as if he hadn't washed for weeks- his hair was a mess of grease and tangles, his face covered in dirt and grime, his once cream shirt torn and covered in wine and yet more dirt. He was barefoot, sat in the corner, arms wrapped around his knees as he rocked back and forwards, eyes betraying his unshed tears. The most concerning part of this was the unsheathed main-gauche sat in Aramis' hand, his fingers holding it tight enough to make his knuckles, bruised and bleeding, look almost white. Aramis' normally spotless apartment was also a complete mess, paper lying everywhere, clothes all over the floor, musket laying discarded and flat by the (unmade) bed.   
  
Porthos took a few careful steps in- the way you might treat a wounded animal- and got a little bit closer to his tortured friend.   
  
'Aramis, c'mon, it's me. 'Mis, please, say something. I'm really worried.' Porthos reached out, touching his friend on the shoulder, who then proceeded to startle, accidentally cutting himself on the arm in the process. Aramis, who appeared to have forgotten Porthos was there, raised the blade to his arm again, as if to make another, more deliberate mark, but the black man was quick and took the blade away, pulling the cold man into his arms and a bone crushing embrace. 'No, no, you're not doing that. Very, very bad idea.' Aramis still said nothing, eyes staring into the distance. Porthos pulled him over to the bed and lay him down, where the man eventually fell asleep, albeit fitfully, cries of 'Marsac! Don't leave me!' muffled by the pillow.   
  
Athos was concerned as well- the three, in their short time of a year together, had become exceedingly close; closer than Porthos had ever dreamt possible. These two were his brothers, and only a few weeks previously Athos had confided his 'woman trouble' in him, as he had so eloquently put it. He hated seeing the state Aramis was in, barely functioning and half- dead. The captain, thankfully understanding of the situation, granted the three of them leave for as long as Aramis needed it. It didn't do any good, he said, that his soldiers be distracted by one of their own.   
  
So they spent the next three weeks trying to help Aramis recover at least physically. They lay with him while he slept, all three of them together, helping him surface from the nightmares; one night Porthos found the middle of the bed cold, and spotted Aramis curled into a ball in the corner. Aramis would be eternally grateful for Porthos not saying anything, just guiding him back to the bed and moving just a little closer to him. There were nights that Athos was bad too, Where Porthos found him in the tavern drowning in wine and his own tears, and led him back to Aramis, where they all relaxed and fell asleep, a tangle of bodies and sheepskin.   
  
In the next few days, Aramis began to come back to himself.  He would prepare his own food, and the attacks began to come less and less, but there was still the ghost of insanity in his eyes, just threatening to break out. He would still jump if anyone made too loud a noise (which included slamming a metal cup down too hard on the wooden table) and they would often find him staring into space while they were talking. But, Porthos knew from experience, people didn't recover from things like this easily. It had taken Athos months to reach the point he was at now, but at least he was coping to some extent. He would get better in time, hopefully. But Aramis....he never let anything get to him. He had dealt with his mother's death simply, needed two days before he was back to himself. It was extremely unsettling to see him in this state.   
  
One week later found Aramis smiling for the first time since Savoy. He had suggested they go to the tavern, claiming he'd missed his comrades, but Porthos knew better; he just needed to get out. While there, Porthos had made a rather distasteful joke about a farmer's boy and a married seamstress, and they had been surprised to see a grin sat upon Aramis' face. It was fleeting, and it didn't quite reach all the way to his eyes, but it was there all the same.   
  
After that, Aramis' recovery was swift. He wanted to go back on a mission two weeks later, and he made a joke on the same day. He was back to his womanising ways a month later, and that was the best healer for him, and it always had been. But the most important thing was that the bond between the three of them was restrengthened. Porthos was relieved beyond all comprehension and Athos....well, the stoicism had relaxed somewhat, his dry sense of humour making for a great distraction.   
  
Of course, Aramis still had the occasional nightmare and bad day, but he was getting there. And he was happy.   
  
**Paris, 1630**  
  
Porthos had been extremely worried the second Marsac had shown up. Aramis had immediately started going downhill, his eyes taking on the same madness that they had contained following the massacre. He had become incorrigible in his quest for the truth, and they had been powerless to stop him. D'Artagnan, as young and unknowing as he was, had seemed worried too, recognising the signs that accompanied Aramis' behaviour from his dealings with Athos on his bad nights. But Porthos had let him try and seek his closure, objecting only at the inference that the captain had been behind the massacre.  
  
It was later that day that they learnt what had happened between Marsac, Aramis and Treville. The body of the last soldier lost to Savoy was brought back to the garrison, an exhausted Aramis following slowly, hunched in on himself. They didn't get a chance to speak to him, only to see him walk in and out, heading towards the Cimetière de Savoy. He was gone for hours, and when he returned he was soaked through, seeming smaller than his build was meant to allow. He walked straight past his friends, who all followed him to his chambers.   
  
The man hadn't even got all the way through the door before he collapsed onto the floor, his knees giving out under him and his vision blurring. He would have landed were it not for three pairs of hands hoisting him up onto the bed, stroking his head gently until he relaxed, breathing settling into a normal pattern.   
  
'Shh, Aramis, it's okay, it's okay, we're right here, you're okay....' All of then were saying words to this effect, all helping him settle down.   
  
'I killed him, I killed him, I killed my brother, oh God forgive me, I have sinned.....Savoy has destroyed its final soldier.....' Aramis was mumbling, his words running over themselves, despite the efforts of his friends to help him.   
  
'Aramis, it's not your fault. You were acting in defence of the captain. Marsac was mad, and you are alive. That is all that matters.' Athos was speaking, his soft voice somehow getting through to Aramis, the man beginning to rejoin them on the earth.   
  
'Aramis, mate, c'mon: you're okay, and you're with us. You're safe.' Porthos was vehement in his expression, holding onto his friend gently. D'Artagnan was concerned, but he wasn't touching Aramis, letting the other two deal with it. His presence would probably make things worse.   
  
'D'Artagnan, come over here, please.' Aramis' voice was shaky, but sure. D'Artagnan walked over, only to be crushed by Aramis. 'Thank you.'  
  
'For what?'  
  
'For being the only one of us currently stable.'   
  
'Excuse you!'  
  
'Porthos, you're not letting me breathe.'  
  
'Oh....sorry.'  
  
'Thank you. Now, can I go to sleep with you all here? I don't think I'm safe to be alone tonight.'  
  
'Then we shall remain.' They all removed their boots and settled down around Aramis and his fortunately double bed, where they all fell asleep, a tangle of hair and limbs.   
  
Yes, this was very, very good indeed, was Aramis' last thoughts as he fell asleep in the arms of his brothers.   
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
